


this is a secret proposition, lay your hands on me

by darkrosaleen



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, of the implied sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:36:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only person who can beat up a Lynch is another Lynch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a secret proposition, lay your hands on me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breverith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breverith/gifts).



> I was also dying for hurt/comfort between the elder Lynches, so here you go! Title comes from "Family Tree" by Kings of Leon, which couldn't sound more like an incest song if it was sung by a band of three brothers and a cousin oh wait.

The only person who can beat up a Lynch is another Lynch.

Ronan tells himself that’s the reason he’s sitting in Declan’s dorm room—some sense of propriety and shit. Ownership. Maybe he wanted a better look at whatever demon was strong enough to beat up the spawn of Satan.

Ronan tells himself that, but when Declan opens the door, spots Ronan on his bed, says _motherfucker shit fuck goddamn Christ in heaven_ and kicks a metal wastebasket ten feet across the floor, it becomes impossible to ignore that Ronan is here out of pity. Declan’s face is a mess of blood and bruises, and normally that would fill Ronan with glee, but normally it would have been his fist that put them there. 

“You look like roadkill,” Ronan says. “I felt bad.”

It’s the truth. For somebody who actively courts violence, Ronan’s having a really hard time looking at Declan’s busted face. It hits on some mother hen instinct that Ronan would really like to remain buried.

Declan shrugs off his jacket and unknots his tie. “How about instead of feeling sorry for me, you try to keep a low profile for once in your miserable life? Normal people don’t keep carrion birds as pets.”

He isn’t talking about Chainsaw’s species. Declan never talks about dreams, not unless he has to. He throws his tie over the back of the chair and starts rolling up his sleeves. 

It’s a gesture loaded with aggression, one he learned from their father. The hair on Declan’s arms is black, not grey, but he has the same whipcord strength in his forearms. His fingers are long and dexterous, the knuckles scabbed over from the last punch he threw. Ronan tries to look at him and see anything other than a wild animal wearing a human suit.

In the Lynch family, the rolling of sleeves usually precedes a fistfight. Ronan’s stomach clenches with excitement.

Declan shakes a couple of pills into his hand and swallows them dry. “If you’re not going to do anything useful, get out of my room.” 

“Guess you don’t need this, then.” Ronan takes the canister out of his pocket, turning it in his hands. “Who knows, maybe Ashley’s a freak and likes it when you’re in pain.”

Ronan likes it when Declan is in pain, but only when it’s pain he caused. He tries not to think about how fucked up that is.

He tosses the canister to Declan, who takes a moment to translate the Latin on the label. “For the wound of the first son, who fornicates with pigs.”

Ronan smirks. “Wow, I have no idea how that got there.”

Declan’s eyes are shrewd, even rimmed with bruises. “How do I know it’s not going to melt my face off?”

It’s a good question. The truth is, as much as Ronan enjoys making Declan suffer, he doesn’t think he’s capable of really hurting him. Cabeswater wouldn’t burn anyone’s skin off without Ronan’s permission.

Ronan pats the bed next to him. “Come here, let me.” He has trouble looking at Declan, but eventually he comes over and sits next to Ronan, setting the canister on the bed.

The cream is translucent and sticky, and it looks so much like semen that Ronan snorts (Cabeswater doesn’t have his sense of humor, thank God). He scoops a bunch onto his finger and spreads it across Declan’s bruised cheekbone. Declan sucks in a breath.

“Jesus. It smells just like rain.”

“Something wrong with that?” Ronan’s hands are gentle, but the bruises are deep, and Declan can’t help flinching when Ronan hits a particularly bad spot. 

“No. Feels good.” Declan has his eyes closed, and his lashes are thick and dark against his pale skin. His stubble’s already a dark shadow under the skin of his jaw, and there’s dark hair going down the front of his shirt, more than Ronan has. Next to his crisp white shirt, it looks wild and obscene.

Ronan can barely keep his hands from shaking. Declan never trusts him like this, hasn’t been vulnerable like this since they were kids. It’s like looking into a pool of water and seeing his own reflection twisted into something strange and unrecognizable. 

Ronan wants to keep looking. 

Carefully, he traces the crooked ridge of Declan’s nose, over the bumps of older healed breaks. The skin is a swollen, mottled purple, and Declan swears when Ronan touches it. With the cream blended in, the purple looks a little less angry. Ronan thinks it looks a little less beautiful.

Every bruise has been covered, but Declan doesn’t open his eyes. Ronan takes a moment just to let himself look, knowing that Declan will kick him out as soon as he realizes this strange ritual is over. Knowing that he’s twice damned just for looking, because it’s a him and because it’s _him._

Ronan leans over and presses a gentle kiss between Declan’s eyebrows. Declan gasps, a soft sound that makes little electric sparks dance across Ronan’s skin.

“Ronan, don’t—” Declan’s words catch in his throat. He still doesn’t open his eyes. His hands tighten in his sheets, clenching and unclenching. Ronan wants to feel those hands on him so much it makes him sick.

Ronan stands up. “Keep the lotion. You might get burgled again.” His face is burning, his hands are shaking, but Declan still has his eyes closed. He won’t see any of the sins written on Ronan’s face as long as Ronan gets up and leaves and never sets foot in this fucking dorm ever again.

He has his hand on the fucking doorknob when Declan grabs him from behind. Just a single hand on the back of his neck, pinning him in place like an unruly pit bull. Ronan can’t control the shudder that goes through him.

“You get my bruises, and I get yours.” Declan’s face is so close to Ronan’s neck that he can feel the sutures on his cheek, stained with the same blood that’s thumping through Ronan’s veins. God, he’s going to hell. “And stay the fuck away from Kavinsky.”

Ronan smiles. “I’m all yours, baby.” He prays for Declan to punch him for it.


End file.
